


Light of Life

by zoemech



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, High Fantasy, Lotor isn't evil, M/M, More Tags Will Be Added as the Story Goes On, Prince Lance (Voltron), Romance, it's love at first sight for poor keith, lance is torn between duty and love, royal au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-15 15:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18502105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemech/pseuds/zoemech
Summary: Now that the war is won, his father can rest in his sickbed. Now that his father grows weak, Lance is next in line to ascend. If not for the heartache he feels he would already be disappearing into the dunes. He wouldn't be the first prince to run away, would he? Surely not, he tells himself. There had to be someone else, somewhere in the long lines of history, that saw their destiny beyond the palace walls.[ After a bloody war, Lance just wants to live a life of peace. He's itching for adventure and is shocked when it comes in the form of a boy from a distant kingdom. ]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist, always being updated, for this fic: [Light of Life](https://open.spotify.com/user/a2j50wzh7lonlqxswc5ogd3hd/playlist/6yNGEMqqPw7Mooh1UryMvi?si=seBFg9T5RMGc4Fwoje2TUg)

 

Prince Lance of the Glimmering Sand is, for all intents and purposes, bored.

He rests his chin on his palm and stares at the dunes, at the palms and rooftops of his huge city. The sun beats down on the stones and though wind flows through the streets, beads of sweat still sprout on the people walking below. He swings a leg from the edge, thin, baggy pants allowing his body to remain cool. The material is silky and laces tight against his ankles, where his sandals remain strapped and secure. He watches the pale blue material flutter before lifting his eyes again to the horizon, wondering just when these diplomats from Daibazaal will truly arrive.

All he sees now, as he picks up a Juuni fruit and lets it coat his lips, is the golden plains of his desert. Usually he enjoys the sight, loving the way it all glitters and glows as the moon rises high in the sky. But at midday there is no magic to keep his attention.

It's just hot.

Sighing, he lays back on the roof, soaking up the rays of the sun against his brown skin. Golden jewelry litters his body, from his wrists to his knuckles, from the lobes of his ears to the diadem resting against his forehead. And beneath his flowing shirt runes travel from his navel to his throat, the thin markings ever-shifting. They are the marks of royalty; of individuals meant for their respective thrones.

The thought leaves him groaning. He turns onto his stomach and closes his eyes against his arm, feeling the heat soak into his back. Distantly, he can hear a procession in the streets. Another celebration for the end of the war, for their peace treaty with Daibazaal and the pirates on the sea. In the beginning, Lance took part in such celebrations. He ate the food of his homeland and swam in the Oasis, danced beside the fires and listened to stories of myths and legends.

But it all grows old when reality sinks in.

Now that the war is won, his father can rest in his sickbed. Now that his father grows weak, Lance is next in line to ascend. If not for the heartache he feels he would already be disappearing into the dunes. He wouldn't be the first prince to run away, would he? Surely not, he tells himself. There had to be someone else, somewhere in the long lines of history, that saw their destiny beyond the palace walls.

The wind blows sand in the air and it sounds like rain, the likes of which is rare during these dry months. Still, Lance pretends. It's funny, the way he yearns for water though his home is here. Maybe later, after he's attended mandatory meetings, he can soak in the baths and imagine it is the ocean of Altea.

With a long sigh he gets to his feet and stretches. The roof of the palace is round but he holds his balance, the balls of his feet light when he traipses across the sandstone shingles. Colors of blue and yellow and red meet his eye as he slides down to the terrace, floral patterns resting beneath his fingers. He drops to the terrace with a soft whoosh, looking into his room with trepidation. On more than one occasion he's been met with a hard stare, usually from his mentor, most times from his-

"Grandmother." Lance sighs, running a warm hand down the length of his face.

The old woman stands with her wrinkled hands on her hips, dress a vibrant orange. She is like the setting sun against the backdrop of his white walls, skin dark and eyes bright. No matter her age, she is a spitfire.

"You aren't even dressed!" She strides forward and grabs hold of Lance's arm, tugging him toward his closet. "So irresponsible, my grandson! Your father's advisors have been searching the entire kingdom for you and here you sit, wasting away on the roof!"

"I know what time it is." Lance winces as she throws silky scarves into his hands, most paired with jewels and little bells. "I just couldn't get away from the sun."

"You and your sun." She scoffs and picks up a brush, standing on the tips of her toes to reach his unruly hair. He ducks and allows her to practically beat the brush into his scalp, "One day you will realize all it wishes to do is burn you."

"The sun keeps us alive." Lance counters, finally placing the scarves around his neck and shoulders. It's the most he will do, considering the day really is wearing on.

His grandmother says nothing more. She simply helps him dress, adorns golden shadow to his eyelids and ushers him out of his room. Through the palace they walk, sometimes in silence, other times with bickering voices. But beneath it all there is warmth; the special kind of love that rests between an elder and their grandchild.

 

* * *

 

"How old is your horse?"

Lance looks down at the child and is shocked to see her reaching for the fabric of his shirt, little fingers wrapping tight. Her face is dirty, hair a tangled, filthy mess. But Lance squats before her anyway and lets a bit of his scarf fall, glad to see that she isn't intimidated by his royal status. Perhaps she's too young to understand who he is. For that, he is grateful. Trips to the markets are always risky and there's no doubt he's been close to recognition before. Still, he smiles at her, letting her palm fall against his.

"She's around three." He says.

"A baby!" The little girl laughs, jumping in place.

Lance nods, "Would you like to feed her?"

The child's nod is erratic and Lance is quick to stand in search of a treat, rummaging through the satchel on his hip. He pushes aside a flask of water and chewy candies, knowing he must have put the small apples _somewhere_.

"Well." He gives up with a sigh, "It seems I've forgotten my treats." At the look on the girl's face, Lance continues, "But why don't we go buy some more?"

They walk through the crowd with slow steps, Lance's mare trailing behind. Night is a fun time, it always has been in a city like this. Lights shine bright from flickering flames and lanterns, roasted meats and sweet delights hang heavy in the air and people are free from the labors of day; there is magic here. Lance can feel it in his blood and as he listens to the little girl talk about anything and everything, he knows she can feel it too.

"How about this?" Lance asks, pointing to an open vendor with a table full of food. He spots glistening red apples and gathers coin from his pocket, handing three to the girl. "Buy anything you'd like."

She looks up at him with wide eyes, "Really?"

He smiles, "Really."

With that, she's off. She scurries around the table and holds her coins close, each of them glinting gold against pretty pink lanterns. Lance buys a solitary apple for Reha, letting the large horse eat it from his flat palm. When he looks up, he intends to watch the girl for another few minutes to make sure there are no thieves on the prowl. It wouldn't be the first time he's had to stop someone from hurting a child, or anyone else with lesser strength. But as his eyes travel around, he is struck by the gaze of someone else.

The boy is alone. Leaning against the wall of an inn, his mop of black hair falls over one shoulder in a thick braid. Lance blinks and figures he's a lone traveler considering his skin is pale and his clothes are not really suited for the weather. But it's the way he's looking at Lance that leaves him on edge; there is a fire in his eye, like he's looking for trouble. Or, rather, that he likes what he sees.

Flushed, Lance gulps and turns back to the vendor's table. The girl has picked a twisted baked bread and two Rabeb cakes, her fingers already sticky from the berries inside. She grins at Lance and eats with gusto, offering one to him the moment she's close.

"No, no." Lance pushes her hand back to her belly, gently but with purpose. "That is for you. Savor it."

When she understands that he's serious, she gives his horse a kiss on the nose and waves goodbye. It makes Lance happy but also very sad, knowing she's probably headed back to one of many orphanages in this grand city. For all of his father's work to help his people, many children were left without parents after the height of the war. Sighing, Lance clicks his tongue and leads Reha on, knowing the loyal horse will follow him with no need for leash. They weave through the crowd and Lance tries his best to ignore the eyes on his back, to keep from glancing over his shoulder at the boy who has not yet looked away. It feels like warmth on his neck, trickling to his belly.

For a fleeting moment, Lance fears his scarves and hood have done nothing to hide his true self. But the boy doesn't look local and Lance tries to reason with himself, knowing he can't possibly know the truth. Could he?

"Excuse me." A voice speaks through the crowd, accent extremely heavy and thick.

Lance freezes, heart in his throat.

"Excuse me?" The person repeats, closer now.

It should embarrass Lance, the way he takes so long to turn around. But there is a striking fear inside of him, whispering that this is it. That he's been discovered and he will be kidnapped for ransom from the King, who can do no more than stand for short periods of time to address his council. When Lance lifts his eyes from the ground, the boy from before stands tall. This close Lance can see that his eyes are grey and his jaw sharp, a very light splattering of freckles decorating his cheeks. For the most part he seems nonthreatening. But Lance, of all people, knows looks can be deceiving.

"Yes?" Lance hopes the boy's stretch of the desert tongue is well formed.

The boy shifts the pack on his shoulder, "I'm new here and I think I'm lost."

Lance glances around, "Why do you follow me? You can ask anyone for directions."

"You seem kind."

At this, Lance goes still. He can feel that cursed flush return to his neck and his cheeks, traveling all the way to the tips of his ears. If this boy wasn't so pretty, he tells himself, he could get out of this without looking like a fool.

"You don't know me. I could be a snake."

The boy smirks, a small little tilt of his lips. "I doubt it. I saw you with that child."

"Right." Lance clears his throat, "Well, lucky for you, the inn is only a few short steps away. Turn back the way you came and you'll see it."

"But I'm quite hungry." The boy gives Lance a sly look, full of mirth. "I'd hate to go to bed with pains."

Lance sighs and holds back from rolling his eyes, knowing this stranger could be using him for the money he saw Lance pull from his pocket. But the boy _does_ seem tired and Lance hasn't eaten since the early afternoon, which was nine long hours ago. So, with a smile hidden beneath his scarf, Lance tilts his head for the boy to follow.

The one place Lance knows he can go without worry is a quaint little spot near a water well, where camels frequent to drink their fill. There is the occasional drift of animal musk through the windows but the patrons hardly care. Lance ties Reha outside and ushers the boy inside, eyeing a small round table in the corner, the wood chipped but still beautifully crafted. They sit with huffs of breath, stretching tired legs and aching muscles.

Once they are comfortable, Lance slowly unwraps the most restricting of his scarves. He folds it with deft fingers and places it beside them on the table, next to flakes of seasoning and folded cloth. There is a small candle between them, the flame flickering and dancing. In the distance a shepherd plays a pretty song, the cords of his instrument bouncing off of the towering dunes. Lance tilts his head to the sound, always glad to hear music.

When he looks up the boy is, once again, watching him.

"What?" Lance furrows his brows, "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Stare like that. One day someone is going to give you trouble for it."

The boy breathes a laugh, "I don't stare at everyone like this."

"Flattery won't get you free food." Lance sits a bit taller, hand raising to fiddle with one of the golden hoops on his ear. "I don't even know your name."

"Keith." He says immediately, "And I have no need for charity coin." He pulls out a small satchel of gold and tosses it a few inches into the air, quickly catching it again. "What is your name?"

Lance shifts, so used to giving his false name that it nearly slips from his tongue. But what is the worse that can happen if he were to tell the truth now? The boy, Keith, knows the tongue of the land. But Lance can tell that he isn't used to the heat, that he isn't quite sure what to make of some of the words on the small menu plated into curling parchment.

So, with resolve, Lance tells him.

"Nice to meet you." Keith sniffs at the air, eyes drawn to a passing platter of steaming food.

Lance laughs and hails the cook, glad to see his friend again. The moment Hunk sees him he strides right over, nearly yanking Lance from his seat. They hug tight and Lance snorts as his feet are lifted from the ground, suddenly feeling both safe and calm all at once.

"It's been too long!" Hunk practically shouts. Though he quickly lowers his voice again, letting Lance settle back onto the ground. He holds Lance's hands, "How have you been?"

"Bored out of my mind." Lance admits, "Missing you very much. It was hard to get away from-"

Lance shuts his mouth fast and Hunk finally notices the presence of Keith, who is trying to act as if he can't hear them. He's staring at his menu much too hard, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Hunk is always careful and very protective, that much will never change. Ever since they were small and Hunk would visit the palace with his mother, bringing exquisite pastries, the two of them have been thick as thieves. 

"As it is," Hunk ruffles Lance's hair and already knows what his order will be, "what can I get you?"

Keith finally looks up, confusion strewn across his face. "What is this one?" He points to a long word, which to him must look like gibberish.

"Want it to be a surprise?" Hunk suggests, playful as ever.

And to Lance's glee, Keith does.

 

* * *

 

Keith eats all of his lamb and wrapped olives quickly, though not without asking questions. Lance notices the curiosity in him the moment he looks around, eyes trailing over the mural on the wall and the people settled at tables of their own.

"Who is that?" He points to the mural.

Lance glances over, enjoying his own meal of lamb and fruit served fresh. The mural is faded but still colorful, the woman sitting within the oasis looking as serene as ever.

"The late queen." Lance hears the hitch in his voice, hoping Keith doesn't notice it either. "She died of disease two years ago."

Keith nods, "She was loved?"

"Adored." Lance agrees, "She fought in the war but had a kind heart. She helped so many people." Clearing his throat, Lance quickly changes the subject. The last thing he wants to do is think of his mother. "Where are you from?"

At this, Keith visibly tenses. He raises a shoulder in a shrug and sips at his ale, wetting his lips. "I just wander."

It's easy to see that he doesn't want to say more. If anyone can respect that, it's Lance. So, pushing away his cleared plate, Lance offers ultimate distraction.

"Do you like to dance?"

Keith's face clears, lightening just a tad. "Not really."

"Do you want to anyway?"

At this, Keith just smiles. He finishes his meal and leaves more gold pieces than is necessary, though Lance is glad that he did it. They untie Reha and head toward the dunes close by, where lights shine brighter and chatter clashes with the strong beat of drum. A large fire pit flares tall, embers floating toward the sky. When Lance glances up there is the ocean of glittering, shining stars. It's a beautiful sight, one that almost always leaves him breathless.

People already dance to the music, clothes fluttering, hands raised. A woman sings close by, language older than that of what is spoken more commonly now. But Lance understands it, has been taught the roll of tongue and tilting sounds since he was a small child. It's an ancient song and it speaks to him, making him feel fire in his veins.

"Come." He reaches without thinking and takes Keith's wrist, leading him into the crowd. When Keith doesn't pull away, Lance just tugs him closer. He turns and laces their fingers, "You have to move fast to keep up."

Keith looks nervous, "I'll fall. Or step on your feet."

Lance laughs, "I think I'll survive."

And with that, he leads Keith in a twirl. The boy is clumsy but Lance enjoys the look on his face, growing from caution to genuine pleasure. Others dance around them, unaware that their prince is in the midst. But Lance likes it this way, hidden and shrouded but still taking part in an act that has defined his people for generations. If there is one thing they do not let fade, it is this.

The fire is hot at Lance's back but he doesn't mind, instead quite enjoying the way it flickers over the plains of Keith's face. It casts shadow and lights up his eyes, shines against his hair and flows along his neck. Not for the first time that night, Lance's stomach flutters with impressive strength.

He knows he will never see this boy again. He knows whatever he is feeling tonight can never come to bear fruit; that it is hopeless to yearn for a stranger, for someone who comes from far away and is sure to leave again. Still, he leans closer, so unused to being held like this. He has had no lover, even though he likes to act as if he has. The most he has done is kiss a servant girl from the kingdom of Altea when he was fifteen, though it was chaste and fast and very innocent.

As the dance settles Lance is fine with moving to the outskirts where they can gain more privacy. His breathing is fast and his heart racing, energy a buzz in his body as he lowers the scarf covering his nose and mouth.

"So?" He asks, voice breathy. "What do you think of my city?"

Keith's braid is falling, strands of dark hair sticking his neck. He plops down against a dune and sand splays, coating his boots.

"It's beautiful." Keith says, sounding truthful. "Everything is different here."

"Oh?"

He nods, "I've mostly traveled in northern realms. Where snow is more common than sand." He lets it drift between his fingers, "Your food is rich. Your beauty a marvel."

At this, he looks up at Lance and doesn't break their gaze. Lance clears his throat and nods, just once, in thanks. He looks to the sky and sees the crescent moon shining bright, trailing toward the West. It is almost morning and he should be home, safe in his bed and ready to rise with the chance that their visitors have arrived. But all he can do is look back to Keith and wish, endlessly, that he could stay.

"We passed several inns on our way here." Lance says, "I trust you can find your way?"

Keith nods, "I'll manage."

"Good." Lance starts to back away, an ache of longing a traitor in his slow steps. "I have to go."

"So soon?"

Lance tries to withhold a smirk, "So soon, unfortunately."

"Can we meet again?" Keith asks, not in the least bit bashful.

Nightbirds sing in the palms and a cool wind blows across Lance's cheeks, brushing his hair and lashes. He wants to say yes. Oh, Goddess, he wants nothing more than to walk to Keith and sit in the sand until the sunrise. He hasn't had this much fun in weeks and he's mourning the loss of it already.

"I'm afraid not." He forces himself to say, "Unless the fates have other plans."

And with that, he turns and walks away.

 

* * *

 

"Father," Lance watches as the older man leans on a cane of dense wood, "you shouldn't risk being out of bed."

The morning is bright and clear but Lance is a torrent of emotion, bouncing back and forth between worry and displeasure. His father is a stubborn man and delusional about the state of his body; the way it wears down and plagues him.

"I can stand in your place today. Just for a few hours."

"No." His father shakes his head, white robes shifting like froth at his feet as they walk through the courtyard. "This is history in the making, my boy. I must be there."

Lance grimaces, "Grandmother could-"

"Enough, Lance." His father sighs, shaky and tired. "We must be strong in the face of our enemies."

"They aren't our enemies anymore."

"I suppose not. But this is a thin treaty we ride on. It could easily snap."

Fountains flow with warm water as they reach the entrance to the throne room, a grand space filled with white marble and huge towering windows. Birds nest above, fluttering with silver wings. Their footsteps echo against the sway of green plants, the likes of which surround them in lush numbers. Members of the court stand and talk in hushed voices, eyes flickering to their king and away again. Most of them look worried, though some appear as though they've accepted his timely fate.

Lance's face grows stoic as they reach the golden throne, the back of the chair plated with gems and jewels. His father takes a moment before sitting with a huff, hands shaking. Lance stands beside him, a few paces behind the royal guards and their giant cats. Bred and trained from a young age, the animals are as fierce as the men and women who guide them. Lance watches one, focusing on the brush of light fur in the sunlight. Much better than facing the incoming visitors, he knows it will be difficult to look upon them and see their reaction to the king they've heard so many tales about.

Yet, when they are announced, Lance looks up fast. He steels himself, settles his nerves and squares his shoulders. Incense tickle his nose but he refuses to sneeze, knowing that first impressions are imperative. A trail of delegates enter the room with traveling eyes, taking in the full expanse of the ginormous ceiling; studying the soldiers and the court and the golden trimmings outlining the shape of flowers.

Lance, in turn, studies them back. For though he is impressive with a weapon, his true feat has always been that of politics and people. He can read someone and know their intentions in a heartbeat, he can twist his words and ease his way into good graces.

Still, when the soldiers of that wintry kingdom arrive, Lance can admit that he is unprepared. They bring wolves in their wake, bristling fur and hunched gazes looking monstrous. Their paws are heavy and the nails click, tails hanging low but swaying as if to say: _I will eat you whole._

Lance supposes he should have payed more attention when told of who would truly be joining them. Because as the crowned prince of Daibazaal enters, hair flowing in silver starlight, he is nothing that Lance expects. He pictured a grizzly man with a swinging ax, a brute with no patience or wit. He never pictured a _swan_.

Prince Lotor bows low, hair falling across his shoulders. He's dressed warmly, though it appears he'd tried to lessen the layers. When he looks up, he meets Lance's gaze first. His eyes stick, prince to prince, but Lance refuses to react. Then Lotor is looking to Lance's father, eyes shadowed.

"Your Highness." He says, the pronunciation of Lance's language rather smooth. "My father sends his regards. We have journeyed far to meet you here."

"Who is hiding back there?" Lance's father asks, head tilting toward a lone figure.

Lotor glances back, taking a long moment, before returning his attention. He has an apologetic look on his face, as if he were almost embarrassed. "That, I'm afraid to say, is my dear little brother. Who it seems has suddenly become rather _shy_."

The word is a hiss, a warning for the second prince to lower his hood and act the way he should. Lance finds it kind of funny and rather relatable, for he too wishes he could step behind his father and leave this court business alone. Instead, he curiously looks on. This is a surprise to them all and he'll be damned if he misses the chance to see the famed second son, the boy who struck down so many of Lance's soldiers.

With slow steps the prince walks further into the room, pale hand rising to the edge of his hood. For some reason Lance holds his breath, heart thumping, fingers fidgeting with the ring on his thumb. When the Prince finally shows his face, Lance feels almost sick. His eyes go wide and he fears Lotor has noticed, though he says nothing.

Keith looks to Lance just once, just long enough for their eyes to meet, before he lowers his head and bows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistakes!

Lance walks quickly through the palace, bypassing servants and guards, eyes cast toward the ground. His father has returned to his bed, though not without giving Lance a warning.

 _Do not forget._ He’d whispered, fingers holding tight to Lance’s wrist, _This visit must end well. But it is important that you remember, n_ _ot so long ago they wanted us dead._

Lance grimaces, wondering if his father truly thinks him inept. He knows what the famed princes of Daibazaal have done. He’s heard the stories just as everyone else has; he has listened to tales of horror in the medical tents, flies buzzing around the dead.

Entering an eastern tower, Lance takes to the winding steps and doesn’t look back. After standing in the throne room for two hours even that began to feel confined. It was difficult to keep his eyes from Keith, to act as if he hadn’t danced with him and dined with him and felt, for just a short while, free with him. If anything, Lotor seemed to beam beneath Lance’s gaze instead. More than once their eyes would meet and the man would smile, a small little tilt of his lips and Lance would quickly look away again. The memory doesn’t sit well with him, nor had the act pleased him as the meeting wore on. He learned that the prince’s would be in Feyiv indefinitely, simply getting to know their once-enemy, before their father bid them to return. Lance had tried his best to stand regal but he felt wilted, as if he were nothing more than a little boy standing before two lethal future rulers.

The stairs echo with his breath but he doesn’t stop until he reaches the very top, the aerie opening up wide and bright before him. There are baskets with parchment and tools for writing letters, the smell of ink mixing with that of nesting. But Lance isn’t here to write. No matter how much he wants to talk about what has happened, he finds that he can’t settle his mind enough to try.

No, he is here for an entirely different reason.

He walks beside the messenger birds, most doves, and he pays little mind to the hatchlings. They open their mouths wide for food but the keepers have yet to arrive and it is forbidden for them to fly without a small flask attached to their leg, anyway. First they must be trained, given names, allowed time to grow strong and resilient. Many of their birds had been seen flying above battlefields, across war-tossed seas, along snow crested mountains of Daibazaal’s own realm.

Soon, the nests lining the walls give way to several large cages. Nothing too confined, considering all of them are empty. All but one. It is the largest and the animal is never kept inside for long- Lance makes sure of it.

The moment he reaches the phoenix, his nerves begin to settle. It’s a huge creature, towering high above the average horse or camel when standing tall. Its wings can expand from one end of the grand aerie to the other and still need more space in order to stretch completely. The bird is rippling with muscle, though she remains sleek and well taken care of. Lance sees Fani ruffle her scarlet feathers at the sound of the latch and he smiles, clicking his tongue to urge her out. She walks with grace, bending her neck the moment Lance feels her feathers on his cheek.

Her beak nudges his back and he laughs, “I am happy to see you too.”

It takes little time to slip a lightweight straddle on her back, making sure the straps won’t slide loose or tangle painfully in her downy feathers. There is a line of rounded horn-like shapes running the length of her spine and he holds on to one as she lowers herself, allowing him to settle up top.

“Thank you.” He says, swaying only a tiny bit as she walks to the open ledge.

Down below, the people do not yet know he is going to take flight. They go about their business like normal as great wings stretch wide, letting the wind brush against the underside. Lance gives Fani time, knowing she will only take off when she’s ready.

And when she does, Lance’s breath is stolen from his lungs. It’s a weightless feeling at first and it’s as if he is suspended under water, hair flying about his face while Fani dives. Wings spread to full capacity, grand shadows are cast against the ground and people tilt their heads up to watch in wonder. When the sunlight shines upon Fani’s feathers, she is fire in the sky.

Lance leans forward and listens to the wind, basking in the glowing sun and warm wind. They rise high and Lance soon extends an arm, letting his fingers wade and flow. They soar above the huge city, bypassing winding roads and stone houses, the shadow traveling above walking horses and camels and goats. His people go about their lives in relative peace, a reminder as to why the prince’s of Daibazaal are here and just who Lance has found himself running away from. There is no honor in what he is doing.

Then again, he doesn’t need honor where he’s going. Soon enough, the city is left behind. It is shrouded in heat waves and sand, the dunes rising higher and higher the further they fly. Some tower like mountains, the craters below treacherous. Colors range from umber to scarlet to pure gold, scarce animals running between wind swept foliage. Fani tilts her body and they glide to the East, where the winds blow with salt. Lance can taste it on his lips; can feel it settle on his skin. Soon, there is the call of gulls and the unmistakable sounds of the coast: flapping sails, chattering voices, crashing waves.

Lance clicks his tongue and Fani pivots to the left, bypassing the port. No matter how much Lance wishes to fall into the ocean below, to let it wash over his head, he knows he needs to keep going if he wants to make it to his destination by dusk. If he were on a simple horse or camel it would take him three days at the quickest pace just to make it to the border. But Fani is _fast_ , so much so that they pass the border within the next hour and Lance can watch the shifting tides change drastic color. In the desert the coastlines are bathed in deepest blues. But here, they are ethereal. Reflecting like crystals in the setting sun, the tossing waves greet Lance with hushed froth. It bathes the sand and the rocks, clashing against the stone walls of the palace.

Fani banks and tilts her body up, wings flapping to slow their descent. Lance holds on tight but already his eyes are in search, roaming over the gardens and approaching balcony. White curtains flutter, revealing peeks of a large room. Claws latch tight to the railing and Lance skillfully maneuvers himself around, slipping away from the saddle until he can safely plant his feet. He presses his forehead to Fani’s and bids her farewell, at least for the night. She will have time to dive for fish and nest on seaside cliffs, to fly as close to her sun as she possibly can. As she bumps his head with her beak, he smiles and watches her go.

“No letter this time?”

At the sound of the voice, Lance turns in a flurry.

Princess Allura is, as always, capable of making Lance’s stomach flutter. She leans against the door frame with crossed arms, one shoulder covered by the white material of her tunic while the other shoulder remains free. On her upper arm, muscular and toned as it is, two silver bands wrap in the lithe shapes of leaves. Lance glances at her sandaled feet and he smirks.

“Nothing to say for yourself, hmm?”

Lance meets her eye, “I missed you.”

For a passing moment, Allura only raises a fine white brow. But then she is breaking into her own smile and meeting him halfway for a long awaited embrace. Not so long ago, Lance would have swooned at her touch. Now, though his cheeks still flush dark, he is glad that he can hold her without such strong desire.

“How are you?” He asks, smelling citrus and smoke in her hair.

The curls frame her face and brush the top of her shoulders, settled above a pendant of a star.

“Coran has been relentless with his lessons. But I’ve found some time to myself.” She pulls away and Lance can see color bloom on her neck. “Nyma says hello, by the way.”

Lance huffs a laugh and wraps an arm around Allura’s shoulders as they make their way back inside, where it is a bit cooler and all the more comfortable. Her room is shrouded with dark paint on the ceiling, giving her the perfect excuse to draw and map out a masterpiece of the cosmos. He looks up, noticing a few new additions to the constellations.

“It seems you’ve learned much, then.” He says.

She hums and lets her own eyes travel, “I suppose so. My calculations have been more accurate than ever. Though I have to work late into the night because Coran insists that a future queen’s day should begin at dawn.”

“Your father would be proud.” Lance says, voice quiet with respect. “And your mother.”

At this, Allura’s face shifts. She blinks and looks away from the ceiling, quick to clear her throat and let Lance’s arm fall as she walks away. The pain is fresh, the loss of her parents a sharp-bladed thing. They had saved Altea, had become heroes in their own right, but only with the loss of their lives. It digs deep into her heart and makes what Lance is going to say next that much harder.

“We’ve received the guests from Daibazaal.” Lance takes a seat on Allura’s bed, watching as she rifles with papers on her desk. Objects roll, most used for the craft of her science. “Though I’m not sure I can stand them.”

That, he knows, is a lie. Allura looks at him and he can tell she knows it too.

“Pompous, are they?” She watches him closely, “Do they brag?”

“Well, no.” He admits, “But they’re not exactly what I was expecting.”

“Oh?”

Lance sighs and lays back on her bed, eyes fluttering at how soft the material is. But he didn’t come here to sleep.

“I met one of them.” He starts, “I mean, before they approached my father. I thought he was just a regular boy passing through the city and we had such _fun_ , Allura. So much fun that I’d been happy. I thought we would never see each other again. But like usual, I was wrong.”

Allura stops what she’s doing and she turns to him completely, leaning against the desk. “So you made friends with an ambassador. What of it?”

“He’s not an ambassador.” Lance gulps, knowing he just needs to spit it out. “He’s the second crowned prince, _son_ of Emperor Zarkon.”

At this, Allura goes rigid. Her shoulders tense and her eyes spit fire, hand clenching a small bottle in her hand. Ink bursts and spills to the granite floor, spreading fast. Lance sits up and takes a moment to meet her eye, hesitant to gather cloth from the wash room. Still, he ends up rushing to do it, hating the silence.

“They’ll want to come here next.” She says eventually, finally gathering her wits to kneel and help. Lance tries to swat her away but she refuses to leave, probably feeling guilty that he’d begun to clean it at all. “My coronation is still months away-”

“Coran can meet with them.”

“And then what would they think of me?” She scoffs, fingers staining as ink meets her skin. Lance’s own hand is bathed in it. “They would take me for a coward. A scared little girl, too foolish and young to rule a kingdom.”

Lance sits back on his heels, face twisting. “Don’t speak of yourself that way. You’re ready. You’re going to be one of the best rulers Altea has ever seen.”

“Don’t flatter me, Lance.”

“I’m not.” He reaches for her hand, “I simply wish you could see yourself the way your people see you. They _adore_ you. You’re their _Podno Kolitho_.”

She looks up at him and in her, he sees his best friend. He sees the girl she had been when they were young, wild and free and outrageously flirtatious when it came to the girls who tended to the palace. And he sees the woman she is now: regal, powerful, the purest of hearts. He sees a warrior and he sees a queen. She shines bright, she _is_ the _Podno Kolitho_ : a guiding star.

He tells her so.

“I suppose I’ll just have to believe you.” She gives him a particular look, one that is both bemused and still slightly self-depreciating. After a moment, she throws the stained cloth to the ground and stands, holding out a hand instead. “Come on, then. Tell me about this prince of yours.”

Lance groans but knows it’s one of the leading factors as to why he traveled so far to get here in the first place. He slides his palm onto hers and allows her to drag him through the winding corridors of the seaside castle, all the way to the gardens and the cliff leading to the sea. It is here that they lower themselves to the sand and smell a mixture of roses and salt, arms crossed behind them to cradle their heads. Lance watches the stars begin to shine and he talks about Keith as if the boy were a lover.

“He’s killed my soldiers.” Lance turns his head to look at Allura, her dark brown skin still glittering in the moonlight. “He’s the son of a cruel warlord. And yet, he was kind. He danced with  me.”

Allura sighs, “I can’t tell you how to rule your own heart.” She glances at him, “But maybe you should keep yourself at a respectable distance. I doubt he knew you were a prince too.”

“I know you hate them. I just don’t understand why I can’t, either.”

“I don’t hate-” She shifts against the ground, resettling. “I don’t hate them. I hate their father. I hate that he sits in his throne across the sea, that he can wait and wait and wait, until he is ready to strike us again.”

* * *

 

As the stars shine brighter and brighter, Lance drinks from slim golden chalices. He wanders through the party in the castle, eats food from the ocean and wishes he could stay with Allura for a few more nights. But he’s sure his father is livid at his departure and he does feel guilty, the emotion washing over him in increments. Still, he tries his best to drown his worries in the dark purple drink. It stains his lips but he’s not too concerned about cleaning them. Everyone is drunk.

Tonight is one of many in this month that Allura’s people worship their Goddess of the Summer: _Lialiek_. Lance silently sends little prayers and thanks to his own Goddess, though most of them are blurred within his drunken daze.

 _Wajslih,_ He tilts his head back and sways a bit, _stop me from doing something foolish. Blind me to the prince._

If she hears him, she does not reply.

“Thanks.” He mumbles anyway, wandering to lean against a large white column.

He watches the party and sees Allura dancing hand in hand with Nyma, the girl rumored to be the daughter of a powerful pirate lord. Lance isn’t sure if it’s true, though the girl certainly looks the part. There is a sword at her hip, tattoos running the length of her arms, golden hoops settled against her lobes. Her eyes are sharp and her tongue sharper, almost outwitting Lance on occasion. There are weeks at a time that she’ll disappear but always she returns with treasures for Allura: necklaces, glittering jewels, foreign flowers kept safe in glass bottles.

Lance doesn’t blame them for their happiness together. He watches with adoration, knowing both of them have suffered because of the war. And if the rumors are true, if Nyma is indeed a pirate and not a simple merchant, she has seen the ocean bathed in blood.

The girl looks to him as she dances and Lance raises his chalice, forever reminded that what is happening back home is imperative to this peace. When Nyma returns her attention to Allura, faces drawn close, Lance makes his leave. He places his chalice on one of the many tables littered with food and he shoulders through the crowd, though many of them step aside when they see the diadem on his forehead. That alone is unmistakable, the shape of a small sun and the citrine jewel inside a testament to his name.

Once outside of the party he strides up the steps and welcomes the wind that flows through the castle, allowing it to settle and sober him. When he enters Allura’s chambers, he scribbles a small note on a piece of parchment for her to find when she wakes. By then he will be long gone, back to his kingdom in the sands. The curtains flutter behind him and his hands settle on the railing of the balcony, eyes sweeping the coast. With a high pitched whistle there is a burst of light in the distance. It sweeps down from a tall cliff and he waits, patient as ever, until Fani can take him home.

 

* * *

 

When he returns the palace is asleep. Dawn is slow, the sun not yet rising in the East. Fani’s wings beat in soft whumps and Lance’s eyes droop, though he knows he can’t sleep now. In a few short hours he will have to rise and face the new day, appearing alert and well kept.

Clicking his tongue, Fani crests and they glide to the aerie, cool wind brushing against them. Lance waits for her to settle before he slips away from the saddle, taking the contraption with him.

He glances at Fani’s nest, “You aren’t tired, are you? You just want to fly.”

Fani chirps, though to anyone else it would be a frightening sound. Lance just smiles and kisses the tip of her beak, heat settled against his lips. In the core of her there is a fire, one that flickers in time with the beat of her heart.

“Go.” He nods toward the window, “Fly to meet the rising sun.”

And she does.

He watches her fondly, keeping sight of her as she spins above the city and the dunes. He only leaves when the first streak of light finds the sky. His descent is hushed and he holds his sandals in his hand, toes warm against the steps. It’s as if he is a child again, sneaking home in hopes that his mother or grandmother won’t know he was out at all. Yet they never failed to catch him, his hair wind-tussled, sand falling from his clothes, a stark scarlet feather settled behind his ear.

Only now, it is not his mother that meets him.

The boy is leaning against a column in the courtyard, hand fiddling with a thin bladed knife. It isn’t curved like Lance’s own but it’s polished and made well, that much Lance can tell just from a mere glance. The straight blade glints as he turns it between his fingers and in that gesture, Lance sees a threat. He slips his own blade from the sheathe on his hip, careful not to make a sound. His steps are slow but his heart racing, pulse fast against his wrists.

When he makes it close enough, he slides one arm around the boy’s waist and the other against his throat, where the blade curves to rest.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lance asks.

Keith goes very still, though when he speaks there is humor in his voice. “Am I forbidden from relaxing?”

“With a weapon?” Lance presses the blade closer, though not hard enough to nick the skin.

The Prince shrugs, “I needed something to fiddle with. Besides, what prince doesn’t carry a weapon? What if someone were to sneak up behind them-” Quick as a whip, Keith somehow evades Lance’s blade and turns, his own now pressing into Lance’s throat. The tip is sharp when he swallows, cheeks heating. “and try to slit his throat?”

After a moment, Lance’s shoulders drop and Keith lowers the knife. There is a smirk on his lips, something playful in his eye. It’s the same look Lance had received when they’d first met and he is at a loss, unsure of the bumps rising against his skin.

“Fair enough.” He says, though not without giving Keith a scathing look.

The boy tilts his head and takes in Lance’s appearance, curiosity prevalent. “What are you doing up so early?”

“ _That_ is none of your business.” Lance says, though part of him wants to spill all of his secrets.

Keith leans against the column again, one brow raised. “Quite suspicious.”

At this, Lance rolls his eyes. He takes a few steps back, hesitant but knowing he needs to leave. He sends another prayer to Wajslih and fears the Goddess is laughing at him. He figures she must be whispering to her sister Ameatis, the Goddess of love and they are _both_ laughing now-

“Be mindful of the Liliups.” He says, watching as Keith follows his gaze to the bright blue flowers. “One prick of their thorn and you’ll be dead.”

Keith looks shocked and Lance feels foolish as he turns to walk away, cheeks becoming ruddy and hotter by the second. By the time he makes it to his room, replaying the short meeting in his mind, the sun has already risen above the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for flirty Keith ok 
> 
> I wanted to get this chapter up before tomorrow because I'm gonna be seeing Endgame early and then working all weekend practically nonstop. I won't get time to update again until sometime next week, so I hope this little update is okay! Thank you for reading and if you can, let me know what you think in the comments! <3 I will update soon!

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr: [zoemech](https://zoemech.tumblr.com/)


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